


The Raven

by greenjudy



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Conversations, Gen, Magic, Meaning, talking mage to mage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 11:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14472111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenjudy/pseuds/greenjudy
Summary: “People look at me,” Max says, his expression mutinous, “and they see whatever the hell they want to see. I think and act; they assign their own meanings.”“Assign them to what?” Solas asks.





	The Raven

“Solas,” Max says. “Question.”

Solas quirks an eyebrow, and waits.

“You said, before, that spirits reflect expectations. Someone without pride might not find a pride demon…”

“That is not _quite_ what I said,” Solas observes. “But proceed.”

“Well,” Max says, and stops, his eyes closed. “Listen. You hear that?” 

Solas cocks his head, and listens.

The stir of leaves in Skyhold’s garden, the sound of a soft rain on the trees; not quite silence, Solas thinks, before he registers it, and smiles to himself. The sound is so common, so ordinary, he’d overlooked it.

“You speak of the raven,” he says, “talking to his friends in the trees over our heads.”

“Cassandra told me that in Nevarra, ravens are considered bad omens. In the ass-end of the Hinterlands, I’ve seen people turn their flight paths into oracles.”

Solas makes a patient noise in his throat. Max, he thinks, is taking his time getting to the point.

“Then there was a poem, when I was growing up,” Max says. “A dark one. But it doesn’t matter. What I mean is, there’s all these notions, and then there’s the raven.”

“You are suggesting, I think,” Solas says, “that Pride and Desire, Wisdom and Purpose, merely name the raven.”

“What does the raven call itself? What is a spirit, when we aren’t bothering it with our dreams and ideas? Is there a spirit, the way there’s a raven? Or is there only a poem, a prophecy, an omen?” 

The raven clicks and chuckles in the tree above them. Solas looks steadily at Max. 

“Is there a Herald,” he asks at length, “or only a poem, a prophecy, an omen?”

“People look at me,” Max says, his expression mutinous, “and they see whatever the hell they want to see. I think and act; they assign their own meanings.”

“Assign them to what?” Solas asks. 

Max looks as if he is about to speak; but he checks himself, as if reflecting on what Solas said, and is silent. 

“We… we are mysteries even to ourselves, Herald,” Solas says. “It’s as true of you as it is of me. You are your own unknown.” 

“A raven in a tree?” 

Solas smiles.

“Talking to his friend, yes,” Solas says. “We can’t know what the raven thinks of himself. All we can do is note its trace in the path of its wings, the sound of its voice.”


End file.
